Loquacious
by Corey5268
Summary: A series of (mostly) unrelated Hetalia one-shots and ficlets using vocabulary words as prompts. It begins with Sealand trying to take revenge on England, and who knows where it's going to end up.
1. Burnish

**AN**: Every so often, my AP Language and Composition teacher gives us 40 words, and we get tested on them. Some are difficult, some are easy. I've decided to use Hetalia to learn them. Each chapter/ficlet is inspired by a different word. All chapters will probably remain unrelated to each other.

Burnish- (v.) to make smooth or glossy by rubbing, polish

(n.) gloss, brightness, luster

* * *

_Jerk England_, Sealand ranted silently. _I'll show him someday. I'm going to be a much more important nation than he ever was. Little does he know that I took this...oil can, I suppose it is. It'll serve him right for treating me like that._ Sealand inspected the grimy object in his hands. In the center a Post-It note was stuck to the metal. "Return lamp to Turkey, Saturday. Confirm hypothesis." _Apparently it's some sort of lamp. _Sealand peeled the Post-It offof the "lamp" (_how can it be a lamp if there's nowhere to put a lightbulb?) _and stared at England's neat note. After centuries of writing, not even his quickly-scribbled notes appeared sloppy. A bit of dirt stuck to the sticky part of the yellow paper, revealing a small area of shiny lamp._ I feel sort of bad for taking the lamp because it's not England's. I don't want Turkey to hate me too. I suppose I'll clean this thing before I give it back to England. Maybe that'll make Turkey like me...and then maybe he'll acknowledge me as a nation!_

Content with his plan, Sealand went skipping off through his little nation to find a cloth and silver polish to burnish the lamp with. Meanwhile, England had noticed that there was a certain lamp missing from his study. After a few choice swears and some pacing, he realized that Sealand must have been the thief. After dropping some foul words that he hadn't used since America was small, he called his boss. He needed reinforcements, and fast. If that child rubbed the lamp, England's nightmares would come true. Sealand could become an actual nation. Jumping into his fastest car, England sped off to go visit the micronation. If he ignored traffic lights, signs, and speed limits, he could be there in less than an hour. He was the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and he was about to go all British Empire on Sealand's sorry ass.


	2. Fetish

A chapter in which America and England have a conversation during their lunch break from one of the World Summit meetings.

fetish- (n.) an object believed to have magical powers; an object of unreasoning devotion or reverence

* * *

"England, what the hell is it with you and that 'Busby's Chair' thingy?"

"What do you mean?"

"You treat it like some sacred object! I thought I saw you praying to it the other day!"

"Why would I be praying to a chair?"

"Don't ask me! You don't see me praying to a chair!"

"America, I've never prayed to a chair in my existence."

"Ah, okay. Is it some sort of fetish object then?"

"No."

"You don't have to hide it from me, Iggy! I'm an adult!"

"You spend far too much time with Japan. I do not have any sort of fascination with that chair that extends beyond my normal interest in cursed objects, and if you suggest _anything_ about my fascination with cursed objects, I will kill you slowly. With a spoon."

"Can-"

"Yes, you _can _bloody kill someone with a spoon. There are _many _ways to kill people that you pick up after a thousand years of life."

"Sorry."

"You better be, wanker. God, you're lucky that my pirate days were coming to an end when I met you. I don't think that I would have had the patience to deal with you any sooner...America? Are you all right?"

"What? Yeah, yeah, I'm fine!"

"Ah, good. Your eyes glazed over for a few seconds, and you were starting to look a little red. Are you sure you're not getting sick?"

"Nah, I'm good. It's just a little warm in here. Oh, hey, look at the time! We need to get back to that meeting. I don't want to be late for my proposal!"

"_You_ want to be on time? Should I be worried?"

"Shut up, and let's go!"


	3. Impecunious

Impecunious- (adj.) having little or no money

A chapter in which Hungary and Ukraine become friends

* * *

"Ukraine, you need to pull yourself together." The former-Soviet nation lifted her head from her tear-stained knees. Though the light was distorted by the water in her eyes, the blurry blob looked like her neighbor.

"Hungary? What are you doing here?"

"I _had _stopped by to see if you wanted to go to lunch with me, but first you need to stop crying. If we go now, your food will get wet. What's the matter?" Hungary sank down to the ground and put an arm around Ukraine.

"I don't know what to do anymore! My economy is in the trash, I can't see my little brother, and I've been working myself to death for years now. I'm tired, I'm lonely, and I just want to make it all stop!" Hungary held the girl tighter as the tears started flowing again.

"You may be slightly impecunious, but you haven't lost everything."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you can't see Russia, that's true. You _do _still have a sister though. And you don't have to be lonely if you don't want to be. I'm always here! Yeah, you've been working hard, but most things worth doing aren't easy. Just think of the long vacation you'll take somewhere warm when things get better. Hell, I'll join you. It'll be like an extended girls' night. We'll go visit Seychelles." Hungary smiled widely.

Ukraine sniffled for a minute before looking up at Hungary again. After a few shaky breaths, she was able to talk again.

"Do you really mean all of that?"

"Every word." Ukraine's slow breathing gave way to a smirk.

"I _would _go visit my little sister, but she terrifies me a little bit."

"She terrifies everyone." A beat of silence passed before the girls both broke into hysterical giggles. Through her laughter, Ukraine managed to make her voice low and dramatic.

"M-marry me, Russia! I want to be one with you, brother! Marry me, make looooove to me. Our love will make the world fall at our feet! Marry me, marry me, MARRY ME!" As she shouted the last sentence, she gently shook Hungary, who was on the verge of falling over from the force of the chortles.

"O-oh God! I h-hope she didn't hear you somehow." Hungary choked out as the laughter started to subside.

"She's probably too busy digging a tunnel under my brother's house." Was Ukraine's reply, which set off another fit of giggles. When they could breathe again, Hungary leapt to her feet and extended a hand to pull Ukraine up.

"See, you've got a lot going for you! I never knew you were this hilarious. I'd be honored if you'd be my companion for lunch, Miss Ukraine." Hungary executed a dramatic bow.

"Thank you, Miss Hungary. I'd be honored to accept," Ukraine returned the bow with a deep curtsy. "But would we be able to stop somewhere after lunch? I need to buy a new bra."

"Of course. I don't really know whether to feel bad because your chest always makes your back hurt, or to envy you because you have boobs that could even seduce Sweden."

"It's not exactly Sweden's preference."

"I kid you not, I've seen him looking."

"Liar."

"Looks like Finland has some competition."

"How's Austria?"

"Though I've seen Finland admiring you too. Maybe he'll make you Mrs. Claus."

"What about Prussia? Have you seen him lately?"

"I'm sure he'd be more than willing to come home to that after delivering presents on Christmas. I suppose Santa has been a good boy this year."

"You're one to talk. I'm sure you've been dreaming about your attractive ex-husband and dashing childhood friend for years. Ah, you don't need to respond. Your blush is more than enough of an answer." Hungary threw up her hands in surrender.

"I admit defeat! You won this round!"

"And many more to come." Ukraine smiled as they walked the short distance to Hungary's car. Hungary grinned brightly in return while turning the keys in the ignition.

"Ukraine, I think this is going to be a wonderful, wonderful friendship."


	4. Laconic

laconic- (adj.) concise; using few words

In which Finland is confused, and Sweden clarifies.

* * *

"Su-san?" Finland looked over to the man stretched out on the couch. The Swede in question glanced up from the book he was reading.

"Mmm?"

"I have a question for you." Sweden slipped a bookmark between the pages of his book, and set it on the table. Swinging his legs off of the cushions and onto the floor, he turned towards Finland.

"S'ask 't." He encouraged with concern in his eyes.

"Why do you do all of this for me?" Finland mumbled, avoiding eye contact. Sweden raised an eyebrow in questioning.

"D'what?"

"Everything! Big things? You do things like buying small nations off of eBay because I mentioned kids _once_ in the 16th century. Small things too! You pick up books you think I might like to read, and mend my clothes if you notice a hole. I'm just wondering _why _you do all of that for me?" Finland punctuated his question with one final flail of his arms. With a few steps, Sweden was standing in front of Finland. He wrapped one arm around Finland's waist, and combed through his hair with the other. When Finland finally relaxed, Sweden's concern morphed into a cheeky grin. Leaning down, he whispered the one thing he knew would always cause the other man to enter an adorable state of exasperation.

"B'cause y're m'wife." Before Finland could make a fuss, Sweden threw the sometimes-Santa over his shoulder and began walking. To his "wife's" half-hearted shoves and protests, Sweden just chuckled, not really knowing where they would end up.


	5. Tantamount

Tantamount- (adj.) equivalent; having the same meaning, value or effect; equal to.

In which Canada has a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

* * *

In Canada's defense, he really hadn't been having a good day. He had made pancakes _before_ realizing that he was out of syrup, gotten stuck in traffic causing him to be late for his meeting, accidentally locked his keys in the car, cracked his laptop when his brother had smacked him on the back a little too hard (though America _did _promise to get him a new one), saw France doing some things that made him consider pouring bleach in his brain to forget, spilled coffee on his shirt, gotten a very angry phone call from his boss, missed his lunch break because of said call, saw Romano and Spain doing things he'd rather not remember, saw England...what _is _it with the World Summit Meetings?

The meetings are once a month! It's not like the nations who use the time to have sex in a broom closet don't see each other at all between meetings. Some meetings, like the one Canada just left, are especially bad. He had walked in on people seven times. _Seven! _ It was only a three hour meeting this time. Had he stayed in the building for lunch, he probably would have walked in on some massive forty-country orgy or something. Were they trying to impregnate each other? There are only about 35 female nations out of the total 200-ish, and Canada really does _not _want to know whether or not they can get pregnant.

The final straw came via a loud nation coming barreling down the hallway after him. Canada had just been walking quietly, making a note in his phone to talk to America to make sure that he _knows _that men can't get pregnant. After all, Canada had no idea what England had taught him...and oh, God, he_ really_ didn't want to continue that line of thought. It was a line of thought that he had been trying very, very hard to push away when an arm was flung over his shoulder at a speed that nearly knocked him over.

When he regained his balance, Canada looked at the nation's face to realize that Denmark was the one leaning on his shoulder. Though confused, Canada didn't really mind that much. Denmark was a pretty nice, if a little annoying, guy.

"Hi, Denmark. Can I help you?"

"America, bro, I was wondering if you want to head to that club downtown tonight. Prussia said he'd buy the first two rounds of beer because I won that bet last week." Canada turned to Denmark with his fists clenched. Seething under his breath, Canada corrected Denmark.

"I'm not America."

"I'm sorry, America. I didn't catch that because you were speaking so quietly."

"My name is Canada! CA-NA-DA! Six letters! _Merde_, it's not that hard to remember! I'm not my brother! I'm not even an American!" There was a snort behind him. Canada spun around only to see the brother in question leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, smiling.

"Sounds like an awesome night, Denmark," America nodded. "Canada, I hate to break it to you, but you _are _technically an American."

"No I'm not, hoser! That's tantamount to me calling you British! Actually, that makes _more _sense than you saying that I'm American considering that England raised you."

"Noooope." America drew out the "o" for a good four seconds before continuing. "You're most definitely American."

"Will you stop saying that? I. Am. Not. An. American."

"You totally are! I'm not an idiot, I know you're not from the United States." His eyes glittered with mirth. Canada knew that his brother liked to annoy him occasionally. He just wondered how long America would draw this whole thing out. Either way, America would probably end up being the one who looked like an idiot at the end anyway.

"Then how, dearest brother of mine, am I an American?"

"Which continent are you from, oh sweetest sibling?" Canada blinked. It would seem that America had actually outwitted him. That hadn't happened for a few years. The man was smart, but he just let the most idiotic stuff tumble from his mouth.

"You..."

"Later, Canadia! Don't forget where you live again!" America flung an arm around Denmark's shoulder. Before the two rounded the corner of the hall, Canada heard America ask, "So is it that club with the purple lights, or the one with the fish tank as a bar?"

The muffled voices grew lower and lower until Canada was alone in the quiet hallway with his confusion and his bad day. _He _needed a drink now. Preferably one with hard liquor and maple syrup.


	6. Impeccable

Impeccable- (adj.) faultless, beyond criticism or blame

Human AU, because I can.

* * *

Ludwig was determined to get his apartment spotless for his date tomorrow. Feliciano might not have cared much about a dust bunny in the corner or a fingerprint on the glass table, but Ludwig would sure as hell know it was there. He didn't want Feliciano to think he wasn't worth the effort, or something like that. After all, first impressions were important. If Kiku thought that setting him up with Feliciano was worth doing then he really wanted to make a good impression. When every surface of the house was impeccably clean, Ludwig gave a sigh of relief, took a long shower, and went to bed.

A loud crash startled the German awake at three in the morning, if his clock was to be believed. Leaving his bedroom, Ludwig found his older brother with his left leg on the couch from the knee down, and the rest of his body sprawled on the floor. The crash had been Gilbert falling then. Ludwig's sleepy trance sublimated as he looked around the room. There were beer bottles and about fifteen dirty socks on the floor, food splattered in various places around the kitchen, what looked like lo mein was stuck to the ceiling, and his brother was for whatever reason using an eggplant as a pillow. After seething for a couple of minutes, Ludwig decided that he would call Feliciano once he was done maiming his brother to see if he minded going to a restaurant for dinner instead.


	7. Abrogate

Abrogate- (v.) to repeal, cancel, declare null and void

A chapter in which South Korea worries about his brother.

* * *

America had just closed the door of his apartment when his phone began to ring. Preoccupied with kicking his shoes off, he answered it without looking at the caller ID.

"Hello?"

"Hey, America."

"Korea? What's up, man?"

"I have a problem. I guess you've been in meetings all day?"

"Yeah, G8 stuff. What's wrong?" It was unusual, to say the least, for Korea to be completely serious.

"It's North Korea." America paled. South Korea's unstable sibling was always an issue hiding in the shadows.

"What about him?"

"His boss abrogated our armistice today." Korea would later tell America that the noise he made at that moment sounded like a small dying animal.

"Completely?"

"Yeah. They could attack any time. I figured that you needed to know. He's been threatening you a lot lately."

"Thanks, Korea. We need to figure out what we're going to do. I have meetings throughout the rest of the week so I can't fly out to Korea, so would you be able to come here?"

"I can leave in a couple of hours."

"Good, I'll see you then. I have a few new games we can play while we're planning."

"Works for me. Is Tony going to be there?"

"Yeah, he's back from his visit to his home planet."

"Then let him know that I plan to kick his ass." America snickered.

"Later, dude."

"I'll be there as soon as I can, America."


	8. Aesthetic

Aesthetic- (adj.) pertaining to beauty; sensitive or responsive to beauty

In which France does some thinking while at the Louvre.

* * *

One of France's favorite things to do when he was home for the weekend was to wander the Louvre for hours. Despite the overwhelming number of tourists, the size of the museum generally prevented it from feeling crowded (except near the Mona Lisa, but that was inevitable). Sometimes France liked to ignore the fact that he had memorized the floor plan of the Louvre long ago, and get lost among the art. On other visits, he would travel between galleries in chronological order, and reminisce about the time periods that the art came from.

Occasionally, France would go to the Louvre with no interest in the art at all. It was a great place to people watch, after all. Art students sketching and scribbling notes were a common sight. People gawked at masterpieces, couples fought and fell in love, families bonded. One of France's favorite scenes was that of an American girl in her early teens, and her grandparents. From what France had heard, the family had lost the girl's older cousin in one of the previous galleries, and the girl wasn't really surprised. Though she looked a bit annoyed, she was more amused than anything. As the grandmother ran off in a panic to find the boy, the girl continued to look around the room. France will never forget the face she made as she turned from her grandmother only to accidentally discover the Venus de Milo.

The girl's expression morphed from fond exasperation, to confusion, to awe, and finally to a sort of relaxed contentment. The girl slightly shook her head to herself while smiling softly and walking away from the sculpture. France had never quite been able to decipher that head shake. It was enigmatic like the smile of the Mona Lisa. Was she shaking her head as if to wake herself from a dream? Perhaps she was trying to tell herself that she really shouldn't have been surprised in a museum full of famous art. Maybe it was some sort of laugh at herself. He would never know.

The days France spent at the Louvre were days of quiet meditation. He would spend the days reflecting on the paintings and his own choices. He would also compare the people around him to those in the paintings. How people had changed, and how people hadn't. His days at the Louvre were his favorite days, when he allowed himself to study the aesthetics of art and humanity.


	9. Importune

Importune- (v.) to trouble with demands; to beg for insistently.

In which England can't say no.

* * *

He had never been able to resist America's puppy dog eyes. England would do anything in his power to stop that lower lip from trembling the tiniest bit, and tear the entire world apart to keep the sapphire-colored eyes from filling with tears. If America truly wanted something, England was unable to deny him. From the day England found America, he had been wrapped around the boy's finger. He would have even let France raise him if it made America happy. England really should have noticed the pattern when it began.

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"England?" America tugged on the hem of his shirt. With a smile, England swung the little boy onto his hip.

"Yes, love?"

"Can I have a horse?" America was big enough that he was beginning to speak properly, but not too big to be carried around. England thought for a minute before answering the colony's question.

"Horses are expensive, America. You're also very small still. I don't want you getting hurt. Maybe when you're a little bigger." America's eyes grew very big and began to get a little watery.

"_Please_, England?"

"America, I said no." His voice was gentle, but firm. With a sniffle, America buried his face into England's shoulder and began to cry. As the sobs shook the boy's small body, England felt his resolve collapsing. He held the child tighter and murmured something into his ear.

"Perhaps I'll be able to find a small one for you to start with."

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"From now on, consider me independent." England charged at America with his bayonet, only to strike America's own rifle. A grapple sent the rifle flying away, leaving him defenseless against his assailant. England pointed his rifle at America's face for a minute before pulling away. The fear and sadness in his eyes was too much. He couldn't shoot America. There was no way. He sank to his knees in the mud and rain. If America wanted him to leave so badly, fine. He would leave. It hurt like he was ripping out his own heart, but he would do it.

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"England, I really need your help."

"You want me to side against Spain? Are you crazy? Why would I do that?"

"Fine. I'll do it myself. I don't know why I thought I'd be able to depend on you anyway." As America turned away, England caught a glimpse of the hurt that flashed in his eyes. With a groan, England grabbed his shoulder.

"Wait, America."

"If you won't help me, please let me go."

"I can't fight, but if you let Cuba go, I can try to help you as much as I can."

"Deal. As for your end?"

"I can sell you some coal, and you can use my telegraph cables. I'm sorry, but I can't do much more. I don't want to get on Spain's bad side, considering that I live much closer to him than you do." America smiled.

"I understand. Thanks, England, for doing what you can." England was abruptly pulled into a hug, and squeezed tightly.

"You're welcome. You never know when I'll need you as an ally."

"I'm sure that's why you did it."

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England felt like he was made out of mud. Wet dirt was everywhere. The camps were muddy, his face was muddy, his clothes were muddy. Hell, it was even caked in his hair. He couldn't even remember the last time he was clean. Hopefully it would all be over soon. America had finally entered the damned war, so maybe America would end it. The flap of England's tent opened and fluttered shut again.

"England," Speak of the devil and he shall appear. "I need you to do me a favor." After spending a moment thinking through all the things that one would ask for as a favor in the middle of a war, England came to the conclusion that the request would probably not be a pleasant one. Despite that conclusion, England wearily turned towards the other nation.

"What do you need?" He sighed, causing America to chuckle.

"No need to sound like I'm about to ask you to commit suicide. C'mere." America held his arms wide for a hug. Though strange, if that's all he wanted, England would oblige. The two men stood in England's tent embracing while explosions went off in the distance.

"Thank you, America." England mumbled. "I can always depend on you when I need help."

"Well, I am-"

"Don't ruin the moment with your hero complex." England protested into his shoulder. With a grin, America tried again.

"What kind of friend would I be if I didn't pay you back for the times you helped me?"

"A bad one." England retorted. America tightened his hold fractionally.

"I'm glad I'm not a bad friend then."

"The best, America." England admitted in a rare moment of total honesty. "The best friend I've ever had." America turned his head to the left so that his mouth nearly touched England's ear.

"Kiss me," He prompted quietly. "It's what I came to ask you." England lifted his head off of America's shoulder so that they were nearly the same height again.

"What?" Though England voiced his confusion, he didn't move away. America brushed some of the mud from England's cheek before repeating himself.

"Please, England? There's nobody else around. Please kiss me." In contrast with his words, there was nothing pleading in his tone. America did not look like he was going to cry, or give off the aura of a kicked puppy. America was truly giving him a choice. It was a request to be accepted or rejected without any emotional manipulation.

England contemplated using some cheesy line like "I never could say no to you", or blurting out a dramatic confession of some sort, but discarded both ideas in the end. Rather than saying anything at all, England tilted his head up slightly and kissed America soft, sweet, and slow, leaving America with dirt on his face and mud on his lips.

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After the mud had gone and the war had ended, Churchill had deemed it the Special Relationship. If that hadn't been as good as getting Churchill's blessing regarding the whole thing, England had gotten it soon after his former Prime Minister made the famous speech. The two men had been talking in Churchill's office when the conversation veered towards America.

"I'm pleased that the two of you finally got together, you know."

"Thank you, sir. So am I." With a smile, England agreed heartily.

"The two of you remind me of teenagers in love." The man remarked.

"Er...How so?" England took a sip of tea and swallowed quickly.

"It's the little things, England. America put all of his carrots on your plate last night because they're one of your favorite vegetables, and ate all of your mushrooms, which you hate. The two of you somehow managed to move your chairs together over the course of the meal so that you were practically on top of each other." England turned a light pink.

"I'm sorry?"

"No need to apologize, lad. I've seen worse. Far worse. I'm almost done prying, but I have one more question first."

"Yes?"

"How serious would you say your relationship is, England?" England, who had almost faded to his normal pale color, turned a darker shade of pink.

"We've only been in this sort of relationship for three years now, which really isn't a long time for a nation."

"Yes, and you met him 400 years ago, and raised him through his first century of life. You're not human, so forgive me for saying that I don't think the length of time he's been comfortable in your bed has anything to do with the nature of your relationship." England's blush continued strong as he replied.

"It's very serious. I love him, and I'd rather not let that go."

"If, someday, he were to ask you to marry him, would you say no?"

"I wouldn't be able to, sir."

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Nearly a lifetime had passed since Churchill had given a name to the relationship between America and England. Despite what some people might think, England was glad to be living in 2013. Smart phones with email were incredibly convenient, as letter writing used to take months and remains slow. The internet and webcams meant that seeing someone on the other side of the world was as simple as pressing a button. It was also nice not to worry about being thrown in jail if America kissed him in public.

Speaking of America, the younger nation was lying on the couch burying half his face into England's ribcage while England's arm was around his shoulders. It was their seventieth anniversary, and the two were watching _The Silence of the Lambs_ on DVD. They had gone out for a nice dinner, but when they got back to England's house, America requested a scary movie. England had picked _The Silence of the Lambs_ knowing that it didn't have ghosts, America had seen it many times, and that it's more of a thriller than a horror movie. The fact that it was one of England's personal favorites didn't hurt either. Thanks to his quick thinking, America was only in a semi-terrified state and only sort-of-cowering.

Once the movie was over, America was able to bounce back rather quickly. Once the credits started rolling, America released his death grip on the blanket that was draped over him, and turned his head away from England's ribs. Quickly sitting up, America relocated to England's shoulder. Once the credits stopped, England was kissed soundly.

"Ready for bed?"

"Whatever you want, love."

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Perhaps he should have noticed that he couldn't say no to America soon after they met. Perhaps they would be somewhere other than where they are now. Maybe the realization wouldn't have changed a thing, and they'd still be lying in England's bed after spending 70 years together. Less than half an hour had passed since the sun began to rise, and a beautiful liquid gold spilled through the curtains and pooled in the curve between America's shoulder blades, illuminating his skin, and spotlighting the little star-shaped birthmark he had over his left scapula. England pressed his lips to the star that America had claimed to represent his capital city. He lingered over the coincidentally-located mark that had been there since America was a boy, almost two centuries before Washington D.C. was built to be the capital of the United States. When England moved away, America began to stir. Without opening his eyes, he yawned and wrapped his arms around his pillow, like England was going to take it away.

"Wh'r'y'up s'early?" America, who became a heat-seeking missile when he was waking up, inched over to England and curled up against his side to steal his body heat. With a grunt of discontentment, he wiggled around for a few seconds before freeing his pillow, which he had accidentally wedged under himself during the quest for body heat. After tossing it across the room, he curled up again, with his forehead resting against the side of England's thigh.

"No reason." America groaned and pushed England so that he was lying down. He allowed England to scoot down so that his head was on a pillow before wrapping his arms around him. Content that his personal teddy bear was in the proper position, America muttered again.

"S'g'ba't'sleep."

"You're only slightly more comprehensible than Sweden when you're tired." England kissed the wrist resting against his collarbone.

"Mmm." He nuzzled the crook of England's neck before returning to sleep. England would sooner do almost anything than admit that his ideal Saturday is spending the day spooning with America. Actually, the only thing he could think of that could get him to confess his favorite pastime was the threat of somehow —_he_ didn't know how it could happen— becoming the object of Belarus' affections. Pushing _that _nightmare far away, England reveled in the warmth surrounding him. He basked in the contact, enraptured with the feeling of skin against skin. The steady rhythm of America's heartbeat, which he could feel beating a tattoo against his back, idly lulled him to sleep. Really, he couldn't think of a better way to spend his time. England had always been wrapped around America's finger, and was completely content to stay that way.

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* * *

**AN: **So it _is _possible for me to write long pieces of fluff without them turning into crack or angst! This is the first time it ever happened! I also forgot to mention when I originally published this, the conversation England has with Churchill is a sort of companion to a slightly longer conversation between America and FDR. If I ever get around to finishing the story that it's part of, it'll be up. Also, information on Anglo-American relations during the Spanish-American war comes from Wikipedia. The lowest test grade I got in U.S. History 1 was on the Spanish-America war.

Additional definitions: As I had completely forgotten until writing this, tattoo has more definitions than a permanent skin marking. As a noun, it can also mean:

A signal on a drum, bugle, or trumpet at night, for soldiers or sailors to go to their quarters.A knocking or strong outdoor military pageant or display.

While checking to make sure that I was using the word "importune" correctly (which I probably should have done _before _finishing the piece), I learned that it also means "to make improper advances toward (a person)." Take that as you will.


	10. Plaintive

Plaintive- (adj.) expressive of sorrow or woe, melancholy.

In which The United States of America and the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland suffer post-Deathly Hallows withdrawal.

* * *

To find England sitting in a room with his older brothers was an unusual sight. To find England sitting in a room with his older brothers in a giant group hug as they all cried was the sort of thing that makes you test to see if you're in a dream. America, upon finding the group of sobbing siblings, attempted to do just that. He attempted to stick his fingers through his opposite hand, looked at his watch to see if the hands moved, and attempted to imagine away gravity. Not a dream, then. Shit. He was _actually _going to have to deal with this.

"Hey, guys. Are you okay?" He asked, approaching the United Kingdom. England lifted his head from the huddle to reveal bloodshot eyes. Wales sniffled as England grabbed America's wrist and pulled him into a hug.

"Of course not, you bastard!" Northern Ireland sniped. "Don't you have eyes?"

"Don't be so mean to the lad. He couldn't know what's going on." Scotland lectured his brother. The two redheads collapsed against each other and began sobbing again.

"What's going on? Were you attacked? Is anyone hurt?" America began to panic.

"It's over," Mumbled Wales. "It's all over."

"What? What's over? I swear, if you need me to help you guys, I totally will!"

"The book, America." England whispered.

"What book?"

"_The Deathly Hallows_. Harry Potter is completely over." America's eyes widened.

"You've read it already!? How? It doesn't come out for another two days! I pre-ordered it and everything!"

"National privileges," Explained Scotland. "Rowling is one of our authors, so we were given the book yesterday. I feel like there's a void in my heart knowing that there isn't another one of these coming up."

"I hadn't pegged you as the sentimental type, Scotland."

"I'm not, but it's _Harry Potter_! You'll understand once you read the book." Scotland passed a copy of the book to America.

"Thanks! I can't wait to read it!" America spun on his heel to remove himself from the crying siblings so he could read in peace.

"Before you go, America, I have one favor to ask you." Northern Ireland piped up. "England and Wales seem to be a bit shellshocked. We'll take care of Wales, but can you bring England into the other room with you. I feel like letting him sit near you while you read might help him a little. Oh, and I'm sorry for calling you a bastard, bastard." America smiled and flung England over one shoulder. England's bedroom would probably be the most comfortable place to read if it was going to be the two of them in the room.

When England finally recovered enough to be aware of his surroundings, he realized that he was lying in his bed. His second observation was that there was someone lying next to him crying quietly. When he turned, he saw America, a book, and tears.

"America, how are you holding up?"

"E-England? Why did she have to kill Dobby? And Hedwig? And Fred, Lupin, Tonks, Moody, George's ear, and all of those other characters?" America clutched the closed book to his chest.

"I don't know, America. To make the war-scenario more realistic? I really don't know." He held the American close as they cried together.

"I can't believe it's over, England. She has to write more!"

"God, I really hope so. I _really _hope so."

When dawn broke, the two nations went to seek out the remaining pieces of the United Kingdom. Together, in a giant pile of a group hug, the five countries mourned.


	11. Interpolate

Interpolate- (v.) to insert between other parts or things; to present as an addition or correction.

In which Prussia gets a tattoo.

* * *

The cool liquid that was swept over his back was a welcome contrast to the rapidly-warming vinyl sticking to his chest and stomach. The disinfectant was rubbed from the base of his neck to the waistband of his sweatpants. Forehead resting on crossed arms, he took a short nap while the prep-work was finished. A poke in the ribs and a soft voice woke him when the time came.

"Are you ready to start?" The artist asked. Her voice was more gentle than Prussia would have expected from a woman who stabs people with needles to make a living.

"The Awesome Me is always ready!" He grinned over his shoulder. The little chick sitting on a tray off to the side gave an enthusiastic chirp. "Looks like Gilbird is ready to see my tattoo. You can ink my awesome skin whenever _you're _ready." The young woman sighed.

"I'm paid to be ready." She nudged Prussia into the correct position. Without any further conversation, the slightly-irritated artist began injecting ink into his skin. It was the final session with the narcissistic ex-nation, and she was quite relieved. The buzz of her tattoo gun and the occasional peep from the chick filled the silence as she concentrated on her work. After about half an hour, the artist stopped her needle and yawned.

"I'm taking a break for some water. Do you want anything to drink?" She asked as she stretched out her arms.

"Do you have any beer?"

"No."

"How—"

"No."

"But—"

"_No_. Stop asking." Prussia rolled his eyes.

"You know, that's completely un-awesome. Beer is the greatest!" The woman rolled her eyes right back at him.

"Do you know what else is un-awesome?"

"What would that be, chickadee?" Prussia shot back with a lazy smile.

"Tattoos that say things like 'Austria and Hungary forever'. If you don't want one, I suggest that you stop asking me for beer." Because the ex-nation, despite what some people might think, had a self-preservation instinct, he carefully schooled his grin into a sheepish smile.

"Sorry. Water is fine."

"That's what I thought."

While the water was being sipped, the artist looked over her work. Dark ink covered about half of the man's back. The eagle had its wings spread, a splash of ink flying through light skin. While the wings curled around his shoulder blades, the tail feathers gracefully wrapped around the spine she had carefully inked over his real vertebrae.

"Why did you choose this eagle anyway?" She wondered, more to herself than her client. Prussia looked oddly thoughtful for a moment before answering.

"This was the eagle that was on my flag. I don't have any land anymore, I'm not a nation anymore. All I have is this eagle and a room in my brother's house. I figured that Prussia, the actual nation, not the awesome personification, deserved to be mapped somewhere again." The artist cocked her head. Until that moment, she had no idea that Prussia had the capacity to sound wistful.

"And the spine?" He sighed and put his cup down. Gilbird hopped off of his tray to sit on Prussia's head. When the bird was safely snuggled into his hair, he spoke again.

"Prussia is still in everything I do. Every movement I make is in honor of my country. Without the nerves in the spine doing what they do, I wouldn't be able to move."

"You don't strike me as the symbolic tattoo kind of guy."

"I can be deep when I need to be. Don't tell anyone though. Hungary would never let me live it down." His smile became bright again. "I have a reputation to keep up."

"Your secret's safe with me. Are you ready to get started again?"

"Part of being so awesome is always being ready!"

"So you've said." She grimaced. It looked like typical Prussia was back out to play. The gun started buzzing again, and she lost herself in her art. When the initial pain began to dull, and the needles began feeling rhythmic, Prussia fell into a sort of trance. The room only seemed to hold the artist, the canvas, the needles, the bird, and the soft humming of the gun. Every so often, she would pause to wipe away excess ink and blood from her work.

Like all things, the session eventually came to an end. The artist put down her needle and cleaned Prussia's back. Upon announcing that Prussia was allowed to stand up, Gilbird cheeped and pecked his owner. Prussia laughed and raised a hand to his head. The chick hopped onto his palm, and waited patiently until Prussia moved him high enough to jump onto the tray again. Once it was situated, the bird chirped twice.

"No problem, Birdie. I wouldn't have squished you." With a deep breath, Prussia began to push himself up. He winced as his sweaty skin squelched away from the vinyl.

"Go look in the mirror." Following the lazy flick of the artist's hand, Prussia walked over to the fitting room-style mirrors against the back wall. Despite his initial fears, the tattoo looked awesome. Rather than looking like the bird got caught on his spine, the eagle appeared to be pulling Prussia after him with a fierce grace. Majestic and battle-ready. Indomitable.

"My country is gone, but Prussia will never disappear." He whispered, nodding at his reflection.

"Are you happy with it?"

"Hmm?" He tore his eyes away from the tattoo in the mirror to look at the artist.

"Are you happy with the tattoo? Is there anything you want me to fix?"

"Ah, no. It's awesome enough to be worthy of my skin! Thanks for being awesome enough to do it." Gilbird chirped in agreement.

"You're welcome. Now lie back down so I can bandage you." Prussia did as he was told. After the bandages were secured on his back, Prussia was given a sheet of paper explaining the aftercare for his eagle. The artist gave him a long lecture about what and what not to do when caring for his wound, then walked him to the front of the store. Hand on the door handle, about to push it open, the ex-nation paused. He turned back to the artist.

"Remember, you promised not to tell anyone that I think deep thoughts."

"I remember. Your secret is still safe with me." She smiled at her customer.

"Good. It's better if the other nations underestimate my awesome." He winked at the artist, and turned away once more. The bell chimed when the door opened, and Prussia wandered off into the night. Just like that.

* * *

**AN: **I hope my description of getting a tattoo is somewhat accurate. I don't have one. If it really _isn't_ accurate, please let me know.

I may or may not edit this later. I wrote the last 200 words with a headache. We'll see how much I like it when the headache goes away.


	12. Necromancer Part 1

Necromancer- (n.) one who claims to reveal or influence the future through magic, especially communication with the dead; in general, a magician or wizard

In which England inadvertently causes some problems.

* * *

America was in his garage cutting into a tree with a chainsaw when England walked in. He didn't hear him at first over the roar of the saw and the loud music he had blasting over it. If you asked him, he'd say that Linkin Park makes awesome songs for tree-cutting. England had to tap him on the shoulder to get his attention. Thankfully he didn't take off England's head when he jumped. He put the saw down and turned down the music a bit before acknowledging the other nation.

"Hey, England! What's up? You usually let me know when you're coming over...not that I'm not happy to see you."

"Er, America, I think we have a bit of a situation."

"What kind of situation? And why do you have a crossbow?" America gave him a confused look.

"Ah, well-" His explanation was cut short by a loud groan from near the garage door. Three decaying corpses were standing in the entryway. Loud groans came from the shuffling bodies.

"England, _what the fuck did you do?!_" America grabbed his chainsaw and revved it up. He slipped his safety goggles back over his eyes after he finished glaring at England.

"What makes you think that it's my fault?" England loaded his bow while avoiding America's glare.

"Because if it was anyone _but _you, you would have called me to ask how the hell I managed to start the zombie apocalypse." America ran through some mental calculations. They were outnumbered, but they were faster. England would probably have to distract the zombies for now, because he couldn't risk getting bitten. _Can nations even turn into zombies?_ Once he was wearing something more protective than a t-shirt he'd be able to help more. For now, he could only take one out if it wasn't looking. England probably didn't have time to shoot all three, so he'd have to try to help out a bit. Slicing off the head should work.

"True enough."

"Take out two and distract the third," America whispered. "I'll come up from behind it with my chainsaw."

"Okay. Fine."

"So _now _will you tell me how you managed to trigger a goddamn apocalypse?"

"I had to go take care of a crisis caused by bloody fucking Sealand in the middle of one of my spells. This is what I came back to. Now stop talking so they don't hear you, you twit!" England shot the first of his arrows through the eye of one of the zombies, and it collapsed onto the floor. The creak of his bow, and the moans of the zombies, and Linkin Park were the only noises in the room. It was an eerie combination, _but,_ America thought as another arrow sank into another zombie, _Linkin Park is even better for zombie killing than it is for tree-cutting_. England moved to the other side of the garage. The remaining zombie continued advancing towards America.

"Look over here, you bloody corpse!" England shouted. With an almost confused groan, the zombie turned and started shuffling towards the other nation. _Too easy. It's a good thing their brains really rot away._ Once the zombie was sufficiently close to England (a long enough walk to forget that America was there), America walked up behind it and pushed the chainsaw straight through its neck. The blood splattered all over England's face and shirt, and dotted America's goggles.

"Let's get inside before more show up."

"Agreed."

* * *

**AN: **The "crisis" that England ran off to attend _was_ the one created in Burnish. There will probably be a part 2 to this at some point, and possibly a sequel to Burnish.


End file.
